“So what have you been up to, pet? Are you feeling better?”
She sniffed discreetly: the room was distinctly fusty. She wondered if a spray of Febreze would cause offence…
When she’d left that morning, himself had been distinctly under the weather – problems at both ends, probably best left at that. She’d left him cocooned in the duvet, sleeping off the chills, listening to the radio with the occaisional feotid, flatulant eruption.
Now, here he was, sat up in bed with the lap top out. He beamed at her over the top of the screen.
“I’ll say, love! I’ve been on Ebay. I got pipped at the last minute on an inflatable Santa for Christmas, but I got a set of garden gnomes in’t club strip for twenty quid! And they sing the club anthem!”
He looked and sounded like a puppy that has just discovered socks, and has not realised they might be important.
“Awww, that’s nice. I’ll go and put the kettle on.” Her normal cheery smile slid from her face as she turned and walked off to the kitchen. “It’s an ill wind…” she muttered under her breath as she left the room.
©David Jesson, 2017